


No One's Here To Sleep

by figure8



Series: Where The Monsters Are [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - The Walking Dead Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/M, Survival, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NYPD officer Steve Rogers awakens from a coma to find a post-apocalyptic world dominated by flesh-eating zombies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One's Here To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii! welcome to my most ambitious writing project ever! woohoo!  
> this is a walking dead AU, vaguely based on the events of the show. i decided to cut it in parts, following the logic of 1 part = 1 episode, and tbh episode 1 is probably the only one that really draws from twd more than just the concept of the zombie apocalypse. the reason why this is a series and not a multi-chaptered work is that pairings and ratings will vary drastically from one episode to another, and tagging would have been an ugly mess to deal with. this is also my nanowrimo work of the year, and i have a good 35k written already, soooo. we shouldn't have an update problem.  
> i honestly only have one endgame pairing in mind (and it's a slash ship, how surprising). take this as an actual tv show. ship away. CONVINCE ME. i'm game.
> 
> a GIGANTIC thank you to kasey for the beta, allie and megan for the constant cheerleading, and globally to everyone on twitter who cheered me on and assured me i should continue when i wanted to give up. enjoy!
> 
> oh and! the fic's masterpost (with a GORGEOUS picspam by allie) is [here](http://haleinski.co.vu/post/103495840879/where-the-monsters-are-by-figure8-a-walking-dead), and i've started a tag for it too [here](http://haleinski.co.vu/tagged/wtma) because i'm a NERD.

Steve remembers falling, and pain—imploding inside his body, spreading from his side to his ribcage, his arm, his neck. He remembers his shoulder colliding with the concrete as he collapsed, and Bucky screaming his name, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Then darkness.

 

*

 

_Steve, buddy, wake up. I’m getting you out of here, wake up! Holy shit, Steve. Stevie, don’t do this to me. They’re shooting people in the hallway, Stevie, I can’t leave—I can’t leave you here. I got Jamie and Peggy out, they’re safe, we’re all getting the fuck out of New York tonight. Goddamnit, Steve—_

 

*

 

Steve wakes up gasping for air.

His chest hurts something awful, and his mouth is too dry, his throat raspy when he asks for water. It takes him a moment to realize no one’s coming. The hospital is dead silent. _Something’s wrong_.

“Buck?” he asks, shaking his head to chase away the unsettling feeling of uneasiness creeping up his guts. He remembers his best friend’s voice ringing in his ear a few minutes before waking up. He remembers—

The flowers at his bedside are wilting. By the look of the water, it hasn’t been changed in a couple of days at least, most likely a good week. Suddenly incredibly alarmed, Steve brings up a hand to his face. He has a _beard_. There is no way in hell Peggy would have let the nurses get away with not shaving him. And that means—that means no one has been in his room for days. His hand goes to his hip by rote, but all his fingers touch is the hospital gown. No gun, obviously. Steve feels naked.

Standing up is a crusade. The scar at his side hasn’t completely healed yet, the blood-soaked bandages another proof of neglect. It doesn’t look infected, at least. Steve bites his lip and suffers through the motion, wincing every time he sets a foot in front of the other. Breathing hurts. He’s so _thirsty_.

He pushes the door gently, very slowly. There are bloodstains all over the wall he’s facing, and there’s at least one body on the ground. The strong smell of death hits him like a punch in the face, and he has to hide his nose in the crook of his arm in order not to gag. He wants to call for help, he wants to make sure Bucky isn’t here anymore, but he’s scared to use his voice. The neon lights on the ceiling are flickering like in a bad horror movie. Steve kind of wants to cry.

_It’s a nightmare. It’s a nightmare, you’re gonna wake up. You got shot, you idiot. You’re hallucinating. You’re gonna wake up come on wake up wake up wake up_

He falls to the floor, his knees hitting the ground first. _This is real._

_I am awake._

 

*

 

He walks through Brooklyn and it’s surreal. Carcasses on the macadam, guts, blood, flies going in circles around pieces of human beings. Or at least Steve supposes they’re human beings—he _hopes_ they are. He roams around like this for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, until he sees one of them.

It’s a monster. There is no other word. But it’s a monster dressed like a human, dirty clothes clinging to its decomposing body. It’s a monster with half a human face.

It tries to eat Steve.

Steve is very grateful for the rod he grabbed at the hospital, until he isn’t. Because he hits and hits and hits and the thing _keeps going_ , even when Steve runs the metal bar _through its ribcage_. It snarls at him, gargles on blood and gore, and _keeps moving_.

I’m going to die, Steve thinks absurdly. I’m going to die eaten alive. What a fucking way to go.

“You have to go for the head,” says a deep voice behind him, and then a baseball bat crushes the monster’s skull. The noise is disgusting. Steve takes a deep breath and passes out.

 

*

 

“Baby, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Peggy’s voice is still soft, still gentle, and that’s what makes Bucky believe they’re going to make it. That, and the arsenal of firearms in the trunk of their car. _Steve’s_ car. God, Bucky’s never going to stop feeling sick when he thinks of him. His best friend. His _brother_. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Steve’s pale face resting on the green pillow, remembers the faint sound of the beating of his heart, and then—then, the emptiness, the nothing, the deafening silence of death.

And the gunshots, and the screams. Bucky left him there, in that hospital turned graveyard, the closest to a funeral Steve’s ever going to get. He’s glad they don’t have the luxury of mirrors anymore. He can’t look himself in the eye.

“Jamie, baby,” Peggy repeats. “Stop.”

“I’m hungry,” Jamie whines, but he does stop fidgeting. “Mom, I’m hungry, you said we were stopping soon.”

Bucky glances furtively at Peggy. She’s sitting so still, her eyelashes fluttering furiously for one second before she composes herself back again and smiles lightly at her son.

“I’m sorry, love. I thought the last gas station would be clean.” She sounds sorry, too. He’s sure Jamie can hear it, but it won’t calm his growling stomach.

“Next one, I’m getting out,” Bucky says. “Forget about saving bullets. Guns won’t help us if we’re starving.”

She sighs, “Bucky…”

“Pegs. I know what I’m doing. M’not letting you die of hunger. ‘Sides, I’m hungry too.”

Jamie makes a happy noise at that, and then he’s back to jumping around in the backseat.

“He needs his Adderall,” Peggy whispers, and the concern is evident in her tone. “It’s been days, he’s not used to skipping.”

The last pharmacy they passed  was miles and miles ago. It was mostly empty, too, and full of Walkers. Bucky doesn’t have high hopes for the next one. Their best bet are the houses, at this point. A lot of people didn’t have the time to clear out medical supplies. “I’ll find a way,” he says anyway, because Peggy doesn’t need to worry about her kid’s pills on top of everything else. She smiles at him, and it’s a surprise, and it’s blinding.

“I know you will.”

 

*

 

Before the entire goddamn world went to shit, Bucky still used to have nightmares about Steve. They weren’t flash-backs _per se_ , just vivid recollections of actual events with a dash of dreamlike exaggeration. Something his subconscious always got right was Peggy’s face when she saw him get out of the cruiser and walk towards her alone that damned Friday morning. How she almost cried, almost faltered, but bit her bottom lip and remained standing instead, proud and strong. He will always remember the way she breathed _Is he alive?_ and how all he could do was nod, voiceless, still in shock. _James_ , she had murmured right after, and for an absurd second he had thought she was addressing him by his full name. _How am I gonna tell James, Bucky? How am I gonna tell Jamie?_

 _You don’t have to do it alone_.

 

*

 

When Steve comes to, he’s handcuffed to a bed.

“Welcome back,” the same voice as earlier says—and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to hear the smile in the words. When he does open them though, he cannot see anything anyway. The light is blinding, his vision just a myriad of white flashing dots.

“Where am I?” he rasps.

“My apartment,” says the guy who rescued him. Slowly, blinking, Steve starts making out his surroundings. On his right, slouched down in a chair, is a young black man, looking intently at him.

“Mind telling me why I’m cuffed?”

“Wasn’t sure about your injury. Man, that’s a nasty wound. How d’you get that?”

Steve winces. “Gunshot.”

“Gunshot. Okay. Nothing else?”

“Gunshot’s not enough?”

The guy huffs, a quick smile flashing across his face. “Nah, gunshot’s fine. No bite?” He doesn’t even wait for Steve to respond, stands up and touches his forehead. “Yeah, you’re cool enough. The fever would have killed you by now.”

Steve blinks, confused. “Fever?”

“Man, you’re really out of it, aren’t ya?” He shakes his head. “Name’s Sam Wilson. You’re lucky I got to you first.”

“That thing got to me first,” Steve says without thinking. Then, “thank you.”

“Haven’t told me your name,” Sam smiles. He has a great smile. He smiles too much, too, for someone who has a stranger chained to his bed. _Or maybe that’s his thing_ , Steve thinks, and chuckles to himself. Sam stares at him like he’s crazy.

“It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Gonna untie me anytime soon, Sam?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Steve’s wrists hurt, but it’s expected. His healing ribs are a whole other thing—having his arms forced up all this time didn’t do him any favors. It burns like a motherfucker. He massages his side with his palm, carefully. “You got anything for this?” he asks Sam after a while. God, he’d sell his house for some painkillers.

“Aspirin, but there’s not much left. I’ll give you one, but my advice? Keep it for when you _really_ need it. You look like you just need to rest.”

“What’s going on, Sam? I mean, outside.”

His host chuckles. “You really don’t know, do you.”

“I woke up in the hospital. I remember—being shot. Going down. I’m a cop,” he offers. “It must have happened while I was sleeping.”

“Yeah. It’s been—a month? Maybe. I think. Maybe a week more. I’ve been counting lately but I was—I was a little out of it for the second week, so, you know. Lost a lot of people. But yeah.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Folks started dying. Fever, like I’ve never seen. Takes you out in a day. But that’s not the real problem, the problem is—the problem is, they come back.”

Even after everything he’s seen, at the hospital, on the streets, it still feels so foreign, so unreal. “The dead?”

Sam inhales loudly again, closes his eyes for a second. “Yeah.”

“That’s—”

“Impossible? Insane? Yeah,” he snorts bitterly, “I know, trust me. It’s real, though. They’re on the streets, man, see for yourself.”

“How’d you make it?” Steve asks, a little fascinated. Sam closes his eyes once more, and for a moment, Steve really believes he’s never going to talk again.

“I’m ex-military. I’m trained.”

Steve can read between the lines. He knows. What Sam isn’t saying is, _I know how to shoot._ What Sam isn’t saying is, _the people I lost didn’t._

 

*

 

When the night comes, Sam barricades the door and the windows. He then opens a can of beans, warms it up, and splits the contents on two plastic plates. He pushes the biggest portion towards Steve, and selfishly, probably for the first time in his life, Steve doesn’t protest. He’s famished and weak, he needs to eat. Sam knows it. They both know it.

“They’re more active at night,” Sam tells him. He’s been doing that for the past few hours, explaining to Steve how the world works now. Steve’s learned that a bite or even a scratch will turn you—kill you fast first with that fever he mentioned earlier, and then you wake up. _It’s something in the brain_ , Sam had said. _That’s why you have to bash the heads. Body won’t work_.

Sam’s twenty-nine—a couple years younger than Steve. He was in the Air Force for eleven years, enlisted right after high school. He doesn’t say why he quit. Steve tells him about Peggy and James. Sam says they can check their house tomorrow, but Steve’s law enforcement. He knows how to read people, that’s his job. Sam thinks they’re dead. Looking outside the window, seeing dozens and dozens of—of _fucking zombies—_ Steve understands why. He can’t stop hoping, though. He knows Peggy. He knows _Bucky_. They’re alive.

“Can they smell us?” he asks when they’re done with their dinner. He wants to know the enemy.

“I think so. S’not like we can ask them, uh?” Sam cleans the plates with an already dirty napkin, stores them away cautiously. “They can definitely hear us. Noise attracts them. Learned that the hard way, using guns and stuff.” Steve nods, hoards the information scrupulously.

“I only have one bed,” Sam says, “and you’re taking it. The couch is great,” he insists before Steve can say anything, “and you are wounded. I’ll take it back tomorrow.” He grabs his pillow and disappears into the living room.

Steve sits down on the bed, hides his face in his hand. He never imagined the end of the world would be so… quiet. But it is. It is quiet, and cold, and sombre. It lacks Jamie’s happy shouts and Peggy’s smiles. It lacks Bucky’s constant presence by his side. Steve has three pillars in his life, three very simple things that allow him never to waver. And now he has nothing. It’s all gone. It’s all gone but he _needs them_ , he needs that strength because he has to find his family. He has to find these three people or he might as well shoot himself in the head right now.

 

*

 

They find the blue Aston Martin just outside Valley Stream. It’s a brand new DB9, ridiculously shiny under the bright sun in the afternoon. It looks clean, too, like the owner was in it just a moment ago. Bucky instructs Jamie to stay in the car and hands a gun to Peggy.

“I’m just gonna check,” he says, getting his own gun out of its holster. “Maybe we’re not the only fellas alive, uh?” He knows the smile he offers Peggy doesn’t  reach his eyes, but she gives him one back anyway, and that’s all that matters. “Stay in the car, kiddo,” he repeats. Jamie rolls his eyes.

He was right: someone _was_ in the car recently. It’s still kind of warm, but not burning. It’s been stopped for at least an hour, maybe more. Under this kind of weather, the hood’s temperature is never a very good indicator anyway.

In retrospect, it’s probably the hunger, but it doesn’t change how fucking _stupid_ Bucky was. He’s almost dizzy with it, only realizes someone crept up behind him when he hears a soft _click_ and feels the cold barrel of a gun on his neck. _Stupid_. And Peggy and the kid are in the car, _god_.

“Who the fuck are you,” the man behind him asks, but his inflection is all off—it doesn’t even sound like a question. Bucky closes his eyes, concentrates on the weapon. It’s slowly scraping his nape—the guy’s hand is shaking. He’s either drugged or really anxious, and in both cases, it means Bucky can get the upper hand in a fight easily—he just needs to get the fucking firearm away from his goddamn carotid. Maybe he can elbow him in the ribs. If he’s fast enough, if he hits hard enough, he can punch the air out of the man’s lungs. It should paralyze him for a second—enough time for Bucky to grab the gun.

“Put the gun down,” he hears Peggy say. Her voice is cooler than ice. To be completely honest, Bucky’s a little scared. She can be terrifying.

“Wanna bet on who’s faster, sweetheart?” the guy snickers, and really, what a fucking _asshole_.

“It’s me,” Peggy says, completely unmoved. “Put it down. Now.”

“Listen to her,” Bucky grits. “She’s going to shoot you, don’t think she won’t.” He realizes as he’s saying it that he’s right. Peggy _will_ pull the trigger. Probably not to kill, but she _will_ shoot. The guy won’t. Or at least, Bucky is almost sure he won’t. It’s all bravado with civilians ninety-nine percent of the time. But Peggy won’t hesitate, and Bucky _wants her to_. Firing in the line of duty is one thing, shooting someone at point blank, without your uniform on… He’s done it. It leaves you empty for a while. It’s the last thing Peggy needs right now, when she should be focusing on surviving and keeping her son alive. Plus, the noise will attract more of these fucking things. “Listen to her,” he says again, “put the gun down.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” the man croaks, and he lowers his weapon. “Fuck, _fuck_ —”

Bucky lets out a ragged breath he didn’t know he was holding, turns around to face his opponent. Peggy is still holding him at gunpoint, but it’s very obvious he’s not in any state to attack. He’s wearing a black hoodie and torn jeans, very teenage-like, but he’s probably in his early forties. There’s something on his face that is _probably_ a goatee, Bucky still isn’t sure. It’s very hipster and very ugly. Go figure.

“Bloody hell,” Peggy whispers then, catching them both by surprise. “You’re Tony Stark.”

 

*

 

Brooklyn is a wasteland. Burned corpses, burned houses, bombed streets. It isn’t as bad as Manhattan—god, Wall Street doesn’t even exist anymore—but it’s close.

“So many people from the suburbs rushed in,” Sam had said yesterday, whispering. The candlelight and hushed tone made everything sadder, the atmosphere ethereal. “Everyone thought the financial district would be safer, you know. Upper East Side, you’d guess they’d protect the rich first. They just—” his voice broke. “They napalmed everything, Steve. I’ve been to war, I toured in Iraq and Afghanistan and—I’ve never seen anything like that. Straight out of history books, a Western replay of Vietnam in Technicolor. Old people. Kids. They had planes, and they just waited for folks to flee the towns around so they could have all of us in one place. Maybe they thought they could control it, I don’t know. It didn’t fucking change anything. There are still fucking zombies all over the goddamned place.”

Seeing his street now, buildings burned to a crisp, bones on the ground… Steve keeps telling himself he’d feel it in his flesh if something happened to Jamie, he can’t help but wonder. The logical reaction wasn’t to flee New York. God, maybe Peggy had thought they’d be safer at work. Maybe they hid at the station with Bucky, maybe Peggy took them to the OCT, locked them down in her brand new office. God, she _probably did_. Steve would have. But the OCT building went down in flames with the rest of Third Avenue. _God_.

“You okay there?” Sam asks when Steve has to clutch blindly to a pole in order not to stumble.

“They’re dead,” he breathes out, feeling dead himself as soon as the words pass his lips. “Sam, they’re dead. There’s no way anyone survived in Manhattan, and I know Pegs wouldn’t stay here. They’re dead, _they’re dead_ , they’re— _oh God_.”

“Steve. Steve, no. Listen to me. _Listen to me._ ” Steve has to open his eyes when Sam grabs him by the collar of his shirt, shakes him gently. “I made it. You made it. We’re alive. I know for a fact we’re not the only ones. We’re going to your house. We’re going to your house, okay? At least we’ll know if they left.”

Steve doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know. He doesn’t know if there’s anything that could bring him back if he finds Jamie’s little body in his room, between his toys.

He says “Okay” nonetheless, because Sam has this way of convincing people he knows what’s best for everyone.

 

 

 


End file.
